


Cigarettes and a Broken Heart

by CafeTiics



Category: South Park
Genre: (IK It's Messed Up I Picked Him But Whatever), Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Basically Includes Very Dark Themes, Depressed Stan Marsh, Domestic Violence, Fluff, Gary Is A Pedophile (?), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other additional tags may be added in the future, Physical Abuse, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Violence, style endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29867883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CafeTiics/pseuds/CafeTiics
Summary: Trust. Giving someone your trust means exposing yourself to them as vulnerable; you’d be giving them everything they’d need to break you and your precious heart. They could lead you on like a fool, and you’d open up too soon. They could trap you in a box of expectations and doings, later on, convince you that they were keeping you safe. They’d take all the information they earned from your trust and take it to their advantage. You’d be a puppet on strings, their little marionette.After several repeated loops of the same performance over and over, a particular seventeen-year-old had decided that enough was enough and would never grant anyone access to his heart and secrets ever again.However, that was bound to change when a certain someone decided to step in.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 2





	Cigarettes and a Broken Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of an ''introduction chapter''. Also, if you're reading my other fic, I got Writer's Block and lost interest in it (sorry), but I will probs continue on it someday. For now, just enjoy this, I guess.

Puffs of billowing smoke were blown out every few minutes, small clouds ascending through the chilly afternoon air until faltering against the silver pelted night. Stars dotted through the stretch above, though doing little to provide light compared to the streetlamps set in neat rows beside the pavement, equal distance between each one.

Dull eyes watched as a new bundle of smoke left his lips, being swooped up by the wind’s force and eventually dissolving into thin air. Unfocused, he stared into nothingness, every hint from his facial features pointing towards disinterest in his current surroundings.

He was pulled out of his reverie only when a noticeable huff escaped the throat of his companion. With a questioning look, he could see from the corner of his eye his blond friend killing the stub of a cigarette he had left, pressing the ignited end against the brick wall behind them.

‘’Okay,’’ He clapped his gloved hands together when tossing the tube away, turning to face the noirette still clinging onto his joint. ‘’I have to head out.’’

‘’Already?’’ The very thought of his friend returning to the poor excuse of a house had an unsettling feeling churning in his gut. Putting aside the fact that he lived in a shithole that could just barely penetrate the rain, the ones he lived with were no better; his parents could barely muster up any money at all, and the least they could do was boil up some water and put a third of a waffle in their plates. They’d never admit to their share of responsibility for the situation they were now being put in, instead opting to blame and rant about how it was the fault of the other. They’d always end up high and screaming at each other, and having three children to deal with on top of that didn’t make it any better. As the middle child, he’d do the little he could to support his younger sister. He’d work hours at a convenience store and later take afternoon shifts as a bartender at Skeeter’s (South Park’s local bar) to earn enough to provide for them. Though most suspected it was also because he wanted to escape that hellhound he dared call _home,_ even if just a couple of hours, he’d take it.

‘’Come on, Ken, can’t you just stay out for a little longer?’’ He pleaded, almost desperate. He didn’t even know if it was more for him or himself at this point. ‘’Please?’’

But to his dismay, Kenny shook his head, chuckling lightly. ‘’You really don’t want me to go, huh?’’ He innocently teased, a measly attempt to brighten the mood.

Though his laughter died down when he couldn’t spot the humorous glint he’d been hoping for, sighing at the worry contorting the noirette’s face.

‘’Well, obviously I don’t.’’ He frowned. ‘’You’re the only one I can talk to who would actually listen.’’ He copied the process of cigar murder from earlier, dropping the cigarette at his feet and stepping onto it with his heel, killing it. ‘’Besides, it’s no secret that I don’t want you near that..’’ He paused, fiddling for the right word. ‘’place.’’

Kenny smiled at him sadly, doing his best to uphold his composure. ‘’C’mon, Stan, it’s not all bad.’’ He tried to reassure but instead earned a glare.

Stan scoffed in disbelief. ‘’Yes, it is! I’ve already offered to take you and Karen in. Kevin’s moved out with Shelly, so it’s perfect. It makes you, like, my brother-in-law or something.’’ He flailed his hands in exasperation.

Kenny stifled another laugh, glad to find comfort in Stan’s overreaction.‘’I don’t think that’s how it works.’’

‘’Yeah, well, I already told you my mom wouldn’t mind.’’ He insisted, crossing his arms.

‘’And your dad?’’

Immediately a pang of regret struck him when he saw the color drain from Stan’s face. Even naturally pale (due to his current lifestyle), it was still noticeable when nearly all pigment fell, leaving a sheet white layer of skin to remain.

The topic of family was nothing to be mentioned if you wanted the boy happy. As little as he let on, Kenny knew the current balance in the family was unstable. He’d tried to pry some information out of Stan, in good heart only, but got nothing. All references revolving around the Mash family were either _they’re just stupid,_ or _oh, I forgot about those._

Kenny was one of the few to know Stan and his older sister Shelly’s relationship was just as bad; as a teenager of thirteen years, she’d always make sure to leave a mark. Whether it was a physical or a mental one, it would always come in the form of a bruise, visible or not. It was like her signature, a sign she’d dealt with him.

Stan had been only eight when it had all started, and though it continued as they grew older, it became lesser physical and more of a silent treatment up until Shelly moved out for college with Kenny’s older brother Kevin. However, whenever she did speak to him (or anyone in the family for that matter), it’d only be a snarky remark or a feisty retort. Occasionally an insult or a nonchalant comment.

As a kid, Kenny had never shown his concerns in more ways than asking if he were okay. The reply was always the same: _Fine._ But he’d now wished he forced the subject on further, only to be able to help in any ways possible.

Stan’s head dropped, bowing down to the streets before him. Blue eyes strained to be kept wide open, almost afraid to blink from the threatening moisture welling at the rim.

Kenny reached forward with his arm, planting a hand gently on the shoulder of his friend. With an apologetic look, he met gazes with Stan, offering only a half-hearted smile.

‘’Hey, it’ll be okay.’’ As insufficient as it was, it was the only thing he could say at the moment. He could only hope it helped, even if he knew it wasn’t nearly enough. ‘’You said he’s getting better, right? Maybe with time, he’ll be back on track.’’

Stan barely acknowledged Kenny’s presence when he made the slightest movement with his head, symbolizing a nod. But it was enough for Kenny to catch.

Slowly slipping his hand away, Kenny sighed, a small cloud forming at the breath due to the cold. ‘’I’ll see you at school tomorrow, right?’’

Most students attended their classes, and there wasn’t much in asking whether or not they’d show up the next day. But as for Stan, you’d never really know. He could skip a day of school and arrive the next without any desire to explain himself. He’d be absent one period and continue with the rest when he reappeared as if he were never gone. Kenny had questioned this multiple times but soon gave up when he got no real answer.

‘’Yeah,’’ Stan murmured, as if to himself. He nodded afterward in reassurance, in case Kenny hadn’t heard the quiet hum caused by the malfunction in his voice box.

Slithering aside, Kenny pulled at the strings of his hood and walked backward out the schoolyard gate. A muffled goodbye, and he was gone.

Several minutes passed before Stan began motioning toward the sidewalk, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat and looking down at the pavement, trudging through a fine layer of snow. It was mid-November, flakes already covering most of the town, icicles clinging at the ends of constructions, whether it was roofs or windows. Every year went with either excruciatingly cold winters or unbearably hot summers, meaning that the temperature would drop drastically starting late October. Unfortunate for the citizens living there, it was already chilly enough to bring the snow this early. And it was nothing most enjoyed.

Stepping up to the door, Stan almost hesitated, leaning his ear against the oak for any sign of life. Buzzing from the TV and rummaging in the kitchen was heard from the other side, suggesting he had come in time for dinner.

Twisting the knob, Stan pushed the door open enough for him to squeeze through, not willing to let in any more cold than necessary. He quickly shut it after him, deciding to lock it, unlike whoever left it so that any stranger could invite themselves in.

Slumped on the couch was his sister, who was paying them a visit from college. She’d moved out to share dorms with Kevin, who surprisingly did well during his years at school. It was unexpected taking from the image his family carried, but perhaps the time alone wasn’t only spent macking on girls after all. He seemed to have cared for his education. He had never planned on doing well when it came to studying or getting graded, but for Shelly, the last few years had seemed worth it enough. With him leaving the house, Stan had felt tense about the consequences. He feared for both Kenny and Karen; only had he imagined what was going on in that household. But he always hoped for the best, wishing to ignore the signs when interacting with them, bruises being the most obvious ones.

Before Stan could escape the outdoor clothing, a brunette emerged from the kitchen, a boiler firmly grasped between her hands. ‘’Shelly, dinner’s ready!’’ His mother.

Sharon placed the metallic pot at the center of the dining table. Hearing the whistle of wind bustling through the front door, she called out again, displaying plates and cutlery with neatly folded napkins, ‘’Stanley, is that you?’’

Slipping his shoes off and hanging his jacket on the coatrack, Stan went to join them. He plopped down at his respective seat in front of the table. Dinner was all set when he arrived: potatoes peppered with dill, cut up slices of meat (presumably veal), and vegetables of tomatoes and cucumbers. Though the smells of it wafting through the air weren’t particularly bad, Stan still suspected it was as tasteless as the last four times Randy had refused to cook for them. Sharon had said it was because her husband was tired and asleep from a long day at work, but both children knew all he did there was screw around, not even focusing on his job as a Geologist. He spent most of his evenings screwing around and getting involved in business he knew nothing about, often resolving in him being taken advantage of because of his oblivion. What Sharon thought they didn’t know was him sneaking out to take shots at Skeeter’s nearly every night, getting drunk, and coming home past midnight. At that point, Sharon could be considered just as oblivious. Shelly didn’t share as much experience as Stan did, seeing as it began only a bit before her moving out, but she knew enough to hate it just as much. He’d wake up to the sounds of screaming downstairs, alcohol bottles and vases being thrown and shattered, furniture moved around if not tipped over completely. He knew his parents couldn’t balance a stable relationship (he still questions why they don’t divorce again), but even the everyday fighting could become unbearable.

He picked his fork and jabbed at the food incredulously, looking up to see his mother eyeing her portion with equal suspicion. Gingerly pushing the plate aside, Stan dropped the utensil without caution, the metallic clinking earning glares from both.

‘’So, where’s dad?’’ He asked vapidly, genuine curiosity playing its role as he watched observantly for his mother’s reaction. Not interested in the man’s location, but rather if his mother would tell him the truth or not.

Sharon busied herself with pouring glass water each, handing them out delicately as she answered calmly. Too calmly, ‘’In bed.’’ She took her place back at the far end of the oak wood. ‘’He’s busy with all the work he’s got, you know.’’ She folded her napkin, draping it over her lap. ‘’He can get…’’ she paused rather awkwardly, ‘’tired.’’

Without warning, Stan shot up from the table, screeching from the chair’s legs interfering with the sudden outburst. He stared coolly at his mother, ‘’may I be excused?’’ He asked, straining to keep any frustration from his voice at that moment.

Sharon gave him a look, almost pouting. ‘’Oh, but dear, you haven’t eaten any of your food.’’ She tried insisting.

Stan hated that, the forced softness in her voice and the attempt of being a good mother. If she faked her worry, he wouldn’t be surprised. It was all an act; pouty lips and fluttering lashes making her innocent. It made him sick to the stomach. It was like instead of facing cruel reality, she pretended, old fashion housewife with proper behavior.

Biting down a hiss, Stan turned to leave. ‘’Not hungry.’’ He simply replied, already ascending the stairs and not looking back when Sharon called out to him: ‘’Don’t forget to take your medication before bed, hun!’’

 _Medication._ Stan scoffed to himself, merely rolling his eyes. At the age of ten, he had been wrongly diagnosed with Asperger, the employed paramedics too blind to pick up on real symptoms and causes. Those, according to his father’s own words, making him a ‘’mentally incapacitated freak’’. ‘’Disinterested’’ and ‘’self-loathing’’ is what they’d referred to him as back then. He’d always thought the signs were obvious, but apparently, nobody was able to name the correct diagnosis, which he now found hilarious.

At age fourteen, his mother started looking into things, taking him to a clinic (with new, thankfully better-educated employees) where the results proved more realistic. He only let on the fact that he had difficulty sleeping, and Sharon did the rest, describing his recent behavior as ‘’depressing’’.

He received his proper medication shortly after, which he was to take daily, though only a small amount each to avoid conflict, that being severe side effects.

Flicking on the lights, Stan squinted his eyes in adjustment. A cold sensation met him, trailing up his feet. Source be the tile flooring he was treading in only thin white socks.

Making it to the sink, he swooped up one of the very few toothbrushes huddled in a glass (having nothing better to put them in) and let the water stream from the tap. It took him longer than necessary to brush and rinse his mouth, and once he finished, he stood hunched over the porcelain bowl, lingering for a while longer.

Ambling beside the counter, he let his hand loosely run through the prescription bottles lined like little soldiers, obeying their general without hesitation. It was as if they were glaring down at him with judgemental stares while he strode along the side. He skidded to a halt only when he reached the bottle at the far end, labeled Zolpidem.

He maneuvered his hand to grasp the bottle, pulling it out delicately as if it were a precious belonging. Screwing the lid off, he tipped the container bottom-up and out trailed the pills. He flexed his fingers carefully, deep in thought as the tablets rolled in his palm.

It was easy; pour more than suggested and swallow. It’d resolve in death eventually. In his sleep, maybe. A stupid train of thought, he knew that, but he couldn’t resist it. He had been contemplating overdose several times before but never fully considered going with it. He knew he wasn’t in the right state of mind, and most of the times this had occurred to him, he’d been nearly unconscious. So he always decided against it, at times just passing out due to the toxins in the substances filling his stash of alcohol bottles. He’d forget all about it in the morning, or most of it at least.

Finally releasing the tight clenching of his jaw, Stan threw the tasteless pellets into his mouth and swooshed it down with water. He grimaced slightly, but nothing he wasn’t used to by now, having it be three years since the first time.

He reversed the process and left the bathroom, rounding the corner and making a beeline towards his bedroom. He pushed the door back until only a glint remained open, a small beam of dimmed light enough to make the dark comforting.

Slipping out through the collar of his navy hoodie and stripping his jeans, only a large baggy black tee and boxers remained, probably the most comfortable he could get when it came to his small, cramped bed.

He crawled beneath the sheets and bent his knees to a decent degree, hugging himself. While heavy eyelids dropped, his mind drew a blank, and rather quickly did he drift into a slumber he’d been longing after. Maybe he’d sleep through the whole night for once.

\- - -

Rapid, almost impatient seeming, knocking was heard from what he guessed was the front door. Clacking of heels against concrete and a creak from the door was next in line before an enthusiastic ‘’hi,’’ erupted. An equal greeting by a masculine voice had replied, though sounded octaves deeper and most definitely calmer.

Out of curiosity, Stan slipped out of bed, warily tiptoeing across the room in small, light steps. Thankful for the soundless push of his bedroom door, he blindly placed a hand at the staircase rail, crouching low for a better viewpoint.

By the doorway stood a tall, lithe figure, facial features not easily made out in the dark, though Stan was sure it was a man, judging by their shape and voice.

They seemed to be waiting for the arrival of his mother, who was only now stepping into view. She was delving her hand into a small purse, which crossed to her waistband perfectly. She was tucking in lipstick. A tight cocktail dress wrapped around her skinnier frame, pearls formed into a dazzling necklace loosely hung from her neck as she crossed the living room in black heels. Old-fashioned.

The man bowed his head to accept a small peck on the lips. Sharon had whispered something, which Stan wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for the jaw movement, and the man pulled out a wad of cash. The puzzle Stan was mentally trying to figure out slowly began collecting its pieces.

The man offered an arm, which Sharon accepted by wrapping her hands properly around. She darted her gaze instinctively from side to side before leaving the house, shutting the door with another creak.

After a minute of interminable silence, Stan pushed himself to his feet, kneecaps aching. His face remained as impassive as ever, not sure how to react. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or disgusted. Probably both, he thought.

Without a single thought striking, he returned to bed, not knowing how long he was up until a familiar blackness wrapped itself around him, strangely comforting.

The last he could think was how he’d describe his mother now. Completely and utterly disgusting.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so IK this was probably really short but I wanted to get started because I got this idea for a fic, and here's the beginning of it I guess (I didn't really know how to start, so). I tried out a new writing style, making it simpler but hopefully still interesting. I will try to lengthen the upcoming chapters too, but no promises. Oh, and sorry for the typos! I can't find enough time to write, really, so checking through to fix grammar/spelling mistakes is out of the question. This note is too long already, so I just hope you enjoyed the fic so far!


End file.
